With A Little Help
by rdrose
Summary: You and the brothers have just finished an exhausting hunt, and when Dean heads to the bar in search of a one-night stand, Sam is stuck bunking in your motel room. Luckily, you happen to have enough weed left in your stash to make an evening out of it. (warning for smut, bad humor, and recreational drug use)


**A/N:** Hey guys. I'm not dead! This has been sitting on my hard drive since August, so here you have it. Yeah, this was meant to be short and sweet, but I'm not very good at drabbles or one-shots. I'm the reason why teachers give maximum word counts.

Apologies for the length. Hopefully, you'll find this as hilarious as I do. Let me know what you guys think!

* * *

The hunt was pretty exhausting. I mean, it wasn't particularly _challenging_ , save for the amount of sheer physical labor involved. You and the boys found yourselves having to dig up a dozen graves scattered over a very large cemetery – the salting and burning being the easiest parts – and the light showers did nothing to stifle the oppressive late summer heat.

Yeah, that took a few hours – you wouldn't believe how much work goes into digging six feet into the earth – and by the time the three of you were able to drag yourselves back to the motel, you were covered in dirt from head to toe. Needless to say, you'd earned a quiet night in.

Which is apparently why Dean saw fit to head to the nearest dive bar to pick up some _one_ to occupy himself with for the night – and as ridiculous as it is, you don't question Sam's 11 o'clock text. You know the drill by now.

 _Can I bunk with you tonight? Dean just sent me the code word, so it'd probably be in my best interest to make myself scarce._

 _Yeah, no problem. God, how does he have the energy?_

 _The world may never know._

You barely look up from your book when you have to get up to open the motel room door for Sam. This is how you handle having a crush on Sam Winchester: you just deny its existence (both to Dean and to yourself), play it as cool as you possibly can, and pretend like he doesn't have even the slightest effect on you (because historically, that's never backfired on anyone, right?). His friendship means more to you than your stupid crush ever could – you don't have chance with him in a million years, so telling him how you feel definitely isn't worth risking your friendship. In the end, you'd rather have Sam in this capacity than not have him at all.

When you open the door for him, he bears his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and an apologetic frown – as if you could somehow blame him for this.

"Dude, I get it. Don't look at me like that – make yourself at home," you say, gesturing to the room then returning to your book as you make your way back to where you'd stationed yourself on the room's double bed. Just as Sam goes to plop down onto the couch, you say, "Oh, yeah – the couch is—"

" _The couch is wet,"_ he hisses as he lands on the couch and immediately recedes, flinching as if he's been burned.

"— _wet_. Yeah, I think they steam cleaned the jizz stains out of it today or something. It smells fine – like it's been cleaned – but it's still wet, which is gross."

"Yeah, I'll just, uh – I'll just lay some towels down, or… something."

"Don't be dumb. There's enough room on this bed for both of us," you say with a deliberately false-looking smile, patting the bed beside you. He just stands there, blinking at you with this look that asks, ' _if this is a joke, how far are you gonna take it?_ ' "No, but for real – I don't mind. And I'd feel like an ass if you had to sleep on towels or on the floor anyway."

He smiles, dropping his bag beside yours on the room's mock-dining table. He's arrived in his standard evening-in attire: a v-neck tee shirt, loose sweatpants that ride low on his hips, and a pair of over-worn slippers which he kicks off by the motel room door.

When he props himself up on the bed beside you, he looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself – he grabs the TV remote and turns on some sort of game show. None of the dialogue is even remotely decipherable, yet the tinny sound coming from the small built-in speakers is still loud and shrill enough to be grating on you.

With an air of confidence, you bookmark your page and close your book, then take the remote from Sam to mute the TV.

"I have an idea. You can say no, but I think it'll be _fu-un_ ," you singsong.

"If this is your way of propositioning me, then I gotta say—"

You shove him, the two of you sharing a laugh. "Oh, _shut up!_ "

"Okay, okay!" He rubs his not-actually-sore bicep where you shoved him, making a pouty face. "What is it then?"

You hold up a finger, signaling for him to wait while you go retrieve a little cosmetic bag from the bathroom. You return to your former position on the bed, unzipping the pouch and pulling out a sealed Ziploc baggie containing two gloriously large, gorgeous nuggets of weed, and a beautiful blue glass-blown bowl. You look at Sam with anticipation, waiting for him to object.

This is uncharted territory within your friendship – sure, Sam knows that you smoke sometimes to take the edge off, but he's never actually _witnessed_ it. You've even smoked with Dean and Charlie once before – it was a good time, and you guys played a seriously sick game of Cards Against Humanity.

But that's beside the point. Now, you anxiously await Sam's reaction, which doesn't seem to be coming.

He just kind of stares at you absently for several long moments. Then, he says seriously, "The room has tamper-evident smoke detectors."

"Well yeah – we'd go outside, behind the building. Whaddaya say?"

* * *

And so you and Sam sit side-by-side on the back stoop of your motel room – oddly enough, this motel has some sort of 'balcony/terrace' feature in all of its rooms, but instead of a pretty private outdoor space, the sliding glass door just leads out to the alleyway where the dumpsters are kept behind the motel. _Ugly, but perfect for our use._

"Have you ever smoked before?" You're trying to make conversation to distract him from the sight of you packing a bowl, but he continues to watch you just as intently, looking almost stunned by the meticulous movement of your hands.

"Yeah, actually. At Stanford."

"Oh my, Samuel Winchester – partaking in recreational marijuana use at an Ivy League school? I am _scandalized!_ " You share a laugh, handing him the freshly-packed bowl along with your lighter.

He looks at it hesitantly, not taking it from you. "But I've never used one of these before. Just, you know –" he mimes smoking a joint, then laughs at his own awkwardness.

"Alright, I can show you," you say, taking the smallest bit of pride in being able to teach Sam something for a change. "Here, you start like this," you say, placing the pipe in his hand and directing his fingers to grip it properly, then bringing the mouthpiece to his lips. "So, think physics. You hold it like so, with your thumb over the—yeah, over the little hole on the side there. Then, hit the lighter and hold it up to the bowl part here," you say, sparking the lighter to demonstrate. "And when you suck in, it pulls the flame into the chamber, thus making smoke. You're gonna wanna inhale slowly – pace yourself – and when you feel like you're almost out of breath, move your thumb away from the hole on the side. That clears the chamber and gives you a little—" you pause, taking in the bafflement on Sam's face. "You look really lost."

"This is a _lot_ of instruction."

"Okay, give it here," you say, and he hands you the pipe. "Watch me. Like so," you say before acting out your instructions slowly for him to see. You feel like an airplane stewardess during those in-flight safety briefings. You take a long pull into your lungs, hold it, then exhale slowly – all the while, Sam looks entranced. "Now you try," you say, handing over the bowl and lighter.

"This probably won't be very graceful."

But much to both yours and Sam's surprise, he executes it perfectly. And the sight turns you on just the slightest bit – _god, why is that so sexy? Is it his hands – oh, those strong, capable hands – or maybe the way he hollows his cheeks, or maybe it's his posture when he breathes in heavy and sits up straight, or maybe—_

He interrupts your thoughts, handing back the bowl and lighter as he holds the smoke in his lungs. Just as you take it from him, he sputters a very undignified rookie cough, laughing at his own ineptitude. "See," he grunts, " _graceless_."

"Yeah, maybe. Better than my first try with a bowl, though. I legitimately thought I was dying."

* * *

Your body feels like lead where you're sitting on the back stoop – no part of you thinks that you could get up in this moment even if you tried. You're left alone in your thoughts until you realize that Sam is actually babbling, and you should probably be listening to him. But of course, your train of thought isn't exactly listening to reason at the moment.

You tune in to him rambling about lore. "It's weird, 'cause like, the myths in two regions can have loads of common themes but are still completely different, and yet both of them can be true at the same time – that's, like, really crazy, and kind of counterintuitive, if you think about it. I try not to think about it. What do you think?"

 _I want to jump his bones. His sexy, well-constructed bones. I'd like to make a boner joke, but nothing clever comes to mind._ _I bet he has good bone density._

And with that thought, you're just laughing to yourself like a lunatic – and your laughter is contagious, regardless of whether or not Sam has any idea what you're laughing about. Both of you sit there and laugh until you're crying.

Sam is nearly wheezing when he asks, _"What the fuck is_ —what's so funny?" You try to stifle your laughter, biting your lip and sputtering a bit before succumbing to another fit of giggles. He laughs along with you, saying, "I'm laughing at you laughing. It's hilarious."

You try to explain what's so funny. You really, really do. But all that comes out is, "I— _fuck,_ I like…" You try to breathe between giggles and find tears streaming down your face. You wheeze, "I like your _bones._ "

And once again, both of you are hysterical.

"M-my _bones_?"

"Yeah, your… your _bones_ ," you remark, wiping the tears from your cheeks, "and their slightly-above-average density."

And when you've laughed until your guts are sore – all from one stupid train of thought – you slump back onto the sliding glass door behind you. "Sam, I have to confess something."

"What is it?"

"I don't think I can move my legs. Or my ass."

"I wasn't aware that the ass was a functioning limb."

"I feel like I'm made of rocks or something."

"Well, technically—"

"Sam, if you're gonna tell me about how my physiology doesn't differ greatly from that of a rock, I'll… I'll throw a… a rock at your face."

" _Oooh_ , can that rock be your ass?"

You shove him hard enough to make him sway a bit and fake-wince.

"I need a beer. Come on," he says, urging you to come inside with him.

'I don't think that I can," you reply, being mostly serious. "It's like I'm telling my legs to move, but they're being insubordinate."

"Fine – I'll carry you," he decides. And with that, he scoops you up into his arms bridal-style, eliciting an undignified squawk and a huff from you as he carries you inside. "There," he says, placing you down gently on the motel room's double bed. "Now, madam, would you like a cold beverage?" You can't help but giggle at the combination of his funny formal speech, his red, hooded eyes, the stupid smirk glued onto his face, and the way that he sways a bit where he stands awaiting your response. _Even when he's stoned out of his mind, he's still a work of art._

"Why yes, dear sir. I find myself feeling quite parched," you reply, and the two of you share a laugh as he fetches two beers from the fridge. "Do we have anything to eat?"

"We have, um –" he looks around the little kitchenette with a frown on his face. "We have Nacho Bell Grande scraps from last night's dinner. Or you do, rather. I'm sure Dean has something stashed in our room, but that's a no-go – and you've got nothing else in here."

You're off of the bed and reaching for the doorknob in two seconds flat. "There's a vending machine here, right?"

"Oh my god – she moves! It's a _miracle!_ "

"This is no joke, Sam. Doritos are at stake."

* * *

You never would have imagined that you could've possibly had this much fun on a night in with one Sam Winchester. I mean – a night in, _platonically_ speaking. But here you are, eating the greatest, most epic amalgamation of snack foods from the motel vending machine, your guts aching from the sheer amount of laughter shared between you. Your time is spent talking, mostly – having the deepest, most productive conversations over random documentaries on the Discovery Channel. Sam's commentary is both thought-provoking and hilarious.

He rambles for a while about stars. _"I don't like knowing that a star could be long dead before its light even reaches our eyes. Like we have enough shit to think about here on earth – don't we? And then all that time that people spend sleeping at night, there are stars in the sky broadcasting their legacies like echoes or something, and people just sleep right through it. But like – that's like the last thing that that star has to say, you know? How would you feel if someone left the room as you're uttering your last words? I mean, it's just really kind of sad, isn't it?"_

To which you reply: _"Stars can't feel sad, Sam."_

 _"But how can you possibly know that for sure?"_

Whenever he sees an animal come on screen, he recites a completely useless fact about it. _"It's funny – a ridiculous number of trees grow strictly from squirrels having forgotten where they've left their acorns. Those poor squirrels, man. Like Dean with his wallet."_ At one point, he remarks, _"Did you know that the number of shark bites reported per year is something like ten times less than the number of people reported bitten by other people in New York city alone? I never liked New York."_

And all of it is just a reminder of the fact that Sam Winchester is right here in front of you, in the flesh, and you can't have him the way that you want to. He's just out of reach – metaphorically, of course – making your gut ache for a completely different reason. He smiles at you when you say something that he agrees with. He laughs at your weird references to lore and ancient mythology. And _god,_ does he look good in a plain white v-neck.

* * *

Once again, you find that you've tuned out in the middle of him speaking. _I really should be more attentive. This is so rude of me._

"Hellooo," he calls, waving a hand in front of your face. "What're you staring at?"

You're definitely staring at his bicep. _Whoops. That's embarrassing._

"I'm—I'm not. Staring, I mean."

A sly smirk inches across his face. "Yes you a- _are,_ " he pries, adopting your characteristic singsong teasing voice. "Come on, tell me."

"Um, no – I just zoned out, I think. Sorry, what were you saying?" The possibility of him discovering your little crush is an incredibly sobering thought.

"You're _totally_ lying!" He huffs a laugh. "Nope, you're not getting off that easy," he says.

 _Obviously. Not tonight, at least,_ you think, mocking yourself.

"What was that?"

 _Oh my god, did I say that out loud?_

"Yeah. Yeah, you did," he laughs. "Sorry, were you looking to ' _get off'_ tonight?"

You gulp, eyes growing wide with panic.

"I—I mean, not _particularly_ , no. I was just, um—"

He leans in closer to you, narrowing his eyes, and in an almost-whisper, he asks, "Why are you suddenly so nervous?"

You look at him for a moment, trying and utterly failing to read his expression. You can't tell if he's fucking with you, or if he's purposely trying to provoke you, or if he's just doing this for a laugh. You can't tell if he _knows_.

"Oh, _Christ_ – this is so fucked."

"Trust you to be so eloquent at a time like this."

You pause and take a breath, closing your eyes for a moment while you gather what's left of your wandering wits, and before you know it, you've decided, _fuck it, I'm just gonna go for it._ You might've said that part aloud too, but it doesn't really matter at this point. With a great deal of bravery, you close the space between the two of you, planting a hard, lingering kiss on Sam's lips.

His face scrunches up (in confusion, most likely), and for a few interminable seconds, you fear the worst. _Oh, god. What have I done? Shit shit shit shit—_

And then, he relaxes into the kiss, groaning softly and placing a hand reverently on your cheek. You can practically hear angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus in fucking D Major as he gives back in kind, deepening the kiss and quickly introducing his tongue into the mix as he hums his apparent contentment.

He pulls back less than an inch, his forehead left resting against yours as he pants heavily. He holds your face in his hands, keeping you in that position as you share labored breaths and a long, meaningful look. In a low, gravelly tone, he asks, "What are we doing?"

"I… I like your bones. I wanted to jump them." You both laugh at the quasi-inside joke before an uncomfortable silence befalls you.

With a measure of hesitance, he pulls away from you and asks, "Sorry if I'm killing the moment here, but I have to know: is this the high talking? Because, if so—"

"Stop – _stop,_ Sam. No – that's _not_ what this is." You take a calming breath, closing your eyes for a moment to escape his piercing gaze. "I…I've always wanted this – wanted _you._ I just always knew that you'd never want me back. I mean, shit – look at you, for god's sake." He rolls his eyes, ready to argue, but you continue before he gets the chance. "Or maybe in some crazy world, you _would_ , deep down. But of course, you'd… you'd never even _allow_ yourself to _think_ of me that way," you pause, trying to tame both the intensity in your voice and the violent gesticulation of your hands. "You know, lest it end the way that the rest of your entanglements have." He winces at the mention of his romantic history. You don't need to explain – he knows all too well that all of them are either estranged or dead. Either way, he's lost every single person that he's ever allowed to get close to him. "Sorry. It's just that I've been thinking about this for a _really_ long time, Sam. Point being: I've always thought that the likelihood of this happening would be slim to none."

He huffs a humorless laugh, taking a long, agonizing pause to formulate a response as he looks down at his hands in his lap. "And yet still, you persisted?"

"Sam," you say, folding your arms and giving him a mock-disappointed look. "Have you _ever_ known me to do otherwise?"

With a smile, he shakes his head. "No – no I haven't, come to mention it. But why now?"

You sigh, wondering the same thing. "Well… I guess I just needed the extra little nudge to go for it. I don't really know."

" _Or_ ," he says matter-of-factly, "you were just waiting for a chance to take advantage of me in my fragile, _compromised_ state," he teases.

You know that he's kidding, of course, but a part of you still feels guilty and a little bit ashamed.

"Oh, _shit_. I – I'm sorry, I shouldn't have… Fuck, I don't know what I was thinking," you say, stumbling to get off the bed and pull yourself away from him.

"No, hang on a second – you're not even gonna ask me how I feel?"

You laugh in response, uncomfortable and bitter. "Should I even trust you in your… your _compromised_ state?"

He deflects the question. "What if I told you that I've wanted this for a while now too, but I've always found you intimidating?" You laugh, disbelieving. "No, seriously. You're always all business; the skirt on your fed suit is like, an inch too long to be inviting, and your body language, too – like you're totally closed off to any advances, or even just friendly conversation most of the time."

"But is that really the reason?"

"In part, yeah. Amongst others," he says with a bit of shame in his eyes. _Oh, right. The distant or dead ones._

"Okay, hang on – just _stop_ ," you say. "I really don't mean to sound like a cheeseball here, but the important thing is that we both want this, right?" Things have started to go back to the haze from before the last minute's sobering emotional crisis, a certain looseness taking hold in your body as you let yourself gravitate toward him.

He doesn't say anything; he just kisses you again. And it's _really_ hot (like, easily one of the sexiest things you've ever witnessed in person), with the devious, dimpled smirk on his face as he not-quite-roughly wraps an arm around you and holds your cheek, drawing you closer to him. The way that he looks at your lips as he draws you in – predatorily, almost – sparks something warm inside you, complementing the hazy warmth you feel simmering just below your skin. It's funny – of all of the times in your life that you've been turned on, and of all of the times that you've been stoned, you've never experienced both feelings at the same time. You might've suspected one might magnify the other – but not as exponentially as this.

With an enthusiasm usually reserved for hunting, endless buffets, and hot strangers in dive bars, you straddle Sam's lap and groan something long and satisfied, letting all of the feelings wash over you at once. His tongue dances with yours, asserting his dominance, and you nip at his bottom lip (praying that he gets the message that you don't want him to hold anything back tonight). He snarls a real, audible snarl, clutching at the small of your back like a lifeline. You grind down into his lap, vocalizing a pornographic sound that you didn't know was in your repertoire (you've apparently lost the ability to restrain yourself at the moment), smirking as Sam responds with a combination of a hiss and a shameless moan as he tilts his head back reflexively.

You pour all of your warmth into the movement of your hips as you trail kisses along his jawline and down his neck, nipping playfully at his skin. You clutch wildly at whatever give is left in Sam's too-tight tee shirt, once again appreciating his choice of loungewear as there's nothing but a few of layers of cotton separating your hips from his. You can feel the bold outline of his arousal now, pressing up into you, as Sam's hands move to guide your hips.

You fumble with the hem of his tee shirt, and after about the third or fourth attempt to disrobe him, he finally does you the favor of whipping it off of his torso himself. You take a moment to marvel at him, your hands hovering over his bare chest as if they can't decide where to begin. And before you get the chance to hesitate, he pulls your shirt over your head as well, then reaches around and unclasps your bra like he's been doing behind his own back his entire life. Shrugging the bra straps off of your shoulders and carelessly discarding it somewhere on the floor behind you, you feel a little boost in confidence at the look of sheer hunger in Sam's eyes. His hands hesitate too – _level playing field. Brilliant._

You resume your movement against his hips, desperate for a little friction, and he hums in appreciation as his hands drift from your sides to your chest. His touch is feather-light on your skin, leaving a stark contrast when his mouth begins roughly nipping and sucking at your nipples, evoking a dirty groan from your lips as you press yourself down harder into his lap. He grunts, taking the hint as his fingers skim the waistband of your sweatpants. He gropes your ass as he guides your pants down over your thighs, and you get up off of the bed to bare yourself the rest of the way. The warmth that you were feeling before is reflected in his eyes as he watches you – you're not particularly slow or sexy or even graceful as you kick your panties off of your ankle, but he makes you feel like a total vixen with the hungry look in his eyes.

You attempt a sexy crawl back onto the bed, reaching for the waistband of his pants as well. He quickly shimmies them off of his hips, but before he has the chance to remove his final layer, you decide to tease him a little bit. You resume your position straddling his hips, but now that you're bare before him, he can feel the heat radiating off of your sex as you tease a bit of friction over his barely-clothed lap. He's visibly restraining himself from bucking up into you, and you think to yourself, _oh, that just won't do._ With a confident hand, you grip the hard length of him through his boxers, stroking him just the slightest bit, and he can't hold back his response this time.

He grits his teeth and grunts loudly, then drops his jaw as an _"ah-ah fuck"_ falls unbridled from his bitten lips. His hips move involuntarily, and after his momentary lapse in restraint, he gives you this piercing, dangerous look, tacitly saying that he'll make you pay for teasing him. _God, I really hope so._

He retaliates, wrapping his arms around you and flipping you around in a lightning-fast maneuver, leaving you on your back beneath him, your surprise evident in the perfect _'o'_ of your lips.

"Do you have _any_ idea what you do to me? Fuck," he grits, drawing back to kick off his boxers.

"...he says, as he rips off his boxers to reveal the nicest looking cock I've ever seen," you tease, making him smile something a little less sinister than he had before. " _Christ,"_ you groan as he crawls back over you, and _Jesus, I now have enough mental images to get off to for several lifetimes._ "You know, I don't really regard cocks as _nice_ in general, so you really should take that compliment as very high praise."

He bites his lip, blushing a bit in a way you never would've expected from a man who looks like _that._ "You're not so bad yourself," he remarks, obviously trying to draw attention away from himself.

"Oh, shut up. Fucking _look_ at you." He laughs uncomfortably, pressing the length of his body against yours so that you _can't_ really look at him anymore. You reach down and take his length in hand, and he leans in closer, groaning directly into your ear before biting at your earlobe.

He mutters, "I can't figure out how to make this sound sexy right now, but _fuck,_ I just really, _really_ want you."

You groan, reveling internally at how ironically sexy his words just sounded in your intoxicated, lusty haze. "I _really_ want you too."

"Condom?"

"Nope, nope – pill. Come on," you grunt, your calloused fingertips digging into the blazing hot skin of his back as you draw him closer to you.

He just laughs and looks into your eyes for a moment, giving both of you pause.

"I should prep you. I'm not exactly, well… _small._ "

You raise a serious eyebrow at him. You take his hand and guide it down to your wetness, and he hums a stifled groan. "Do I seem like I need prepping?" He shakes his head vigorously. In a coy tone, you tease, "Don't I just feel so _inviting,_ Sammy?" You're not sure where this dirty talk is coming from ( _ha, coming_ ), but it's certainly doing the job for Sam. He hums again in response, biting down on his lower lip as he snarls, his hips rolling against yours seemingly involuntarily.

" _Fuck_ —" He has to pause for a second, exhaling slowly and clenching his eyes shut as he most likely thinks about baseball or England. The wave passes, and he inhales sharply, straight back to business. "You say such dangerous things, sweetheart."

You grin and lean up to whisper in his ear, "Ooh, I _like_ that. Okay. _Prove it,_ _Winchester._ "

He places one hand on your hip and grips his cock in the other, lining himself up. He only pauses long enough for you to wrap your arms around him, your nails digging into his skin just this side of uncomfortable, before sinking into you in a few shallow, uncoordinated but passionate thrusts. When he bottoms out, he rests his forehead against your collarbone as he takes measured breaths and awaits your go-ahead. You draw his face to yours (making note of the crease in his brow as he concentrates) and kiss him deeply, your satisfactory groan muffled by his lips.

It makes you feel better knowing that he's having to pace himself; you've wanted him for so long, and with nary a hint of reciprocation on his end, you'd lost hope a long time ago. Now, the pained look on his face as he tries to compose himself (for the sake of your comfort, and also to keep from coming immediately) gives you great satisfaction – your desire has been realized. And it feels warmer and sweatier and shakier than you thought it would.

" _Mmm_ ," you moan as Sam's kissing turns to biting and his upper lip draws up into that almost-snarl that you're so fond of. "Fuck me, Sam."

He tries to think of something clever or dirty to say in response, but the whole conversation must just be happening in his head – because he just glances between your eyes for a few seconds, nods decisively, then smirks and gets to work on taking you apart.

He draws his hips back slowly, agonizingly, then thrusts back in hard, deep, precise. Gone is the uncertainty of before – he's in his element. He's focused.

You're not.

You're distracted. You're distracted by his chest and the muscles in his arms, cloaked in a thin sheen of sweat and glowing in the low fluorescent motel room lighting. The room's shadows accentuate his biceps and his gorgeous jawline, exaggerating the look of his five o'clock shadow in the most delicious way.

Then, he thrusts back into you. And you realize that it's only been less than two whole seconds – your thoughts slowed in the time between one thrust and the next.

"Hey," he says softly, brushing your hair out of your face, his hand lingering fondly on your cheek. "You good? You froze for a second there."

"Oh, I'm _good._ I'm _real good._ " The word ' _good'_ is the only thing you can think to say to express your satisfaction. "Please don't stop, Sam."

 _Oh boy. That sounded really desperate._

 _He broke me._

He laughs, nodding his head in agreement/acceptance/acknowledgement. It might even be patronizing, but you couldn't care less. Every hazy smile looks the same in the heat of the—

 _Don't say 'moment.' Sam has a thing about that song. It bothers him._

 _Don't sing, don't sing, dear GOD, please don't—_

You throw a hand up to cover your mouth, giggling behind your hand as Sam cocks his head in confusion.

"I was just, um – I was gonna sing for a second. It was gonna be _really_ bad." He laughs. "Can I, um – can I be on top?"

He smiles vaguely again before flipping the two of you around so that he's sitting against the headboard and you're hovering over him.

"Sorry, I was getting in my head a little bit there. I don't wanna miss a beat of this."

You don't bother with the slow initial sink down his hard cock – you line him up and practically drop yourself into his lap, both of you grunting in surprise. Sam sounds like you've just punched him in the gut, but like, in a good way. It's his turn to dig his nails into your back, and you love it. You whimper, biting your lip and hoping that Sam keeps that up.

But he does you one better as you fuck yourself down onto him: he continues digging the nails of one hand into your back, then tugs your hair lightly with the other, and you have to pause with him buried inside of you for a moment, lavishing in the pain and the fullness as you whine loud enough for the whole motel to hear, and Sam bites his own lip.

"You're _so_ ," he thrusts up into you, "fucking–" and again, harder this time, " _ahh,_ oh god…"

He pulls you tight against him, his bare chest pressed against yours as he writhes up into you, your body still as you kneel astride his lap. A strangled sound escapes you as he hits both your clit and your sweet spot with every perfect grind of his hips.

"Oh, _oh_ _Sam,_ f-fuck…" You're whimpering now as you climb towards your peak in the most glorious slow motion. "Right there, right there!" Your whimpers grow in pitch, and he watches your face, mesmerized.

"That's it, yeah. Come on. You're so tight, god—" It's his turn to emit a strangled sound, his eyes practically rolling back in his head as you clench hard around him.

Sam coaxes you toward your orgasm, and you're sure that your expression probably looks pained, but you've never experienced a build-up this intense in your entire life. Maybe it's because everything feels slower right now, but you're on the goddamn _crest_ for what feels like a good forty seconds. All the while, you're just whimpering, _'ah, ah, hmm, fuck'_ and variants thereof on repeat. Sam doesn't seem to mind.

He can't hold back his own sounds anymore. He muffles his groans by biting at your neck, and that's the thing that finally pushes you over the edge.

Your focus zooms in on your sweet spot as waves of what can only be described as _pleasure_ radiate out from that spot – from your walls to your gut to your head to your fingers and your toes. It vibrates, pulses from within you.

The moment that those pulses stop, you take a deep breath, oxygen rushing to your head as you realize that you must've been holding your breath. Your vision swims, a black vignette dangerously creeping in at the corners of your sight, but you can't be bothered to care.

Sam must've maneuvered you onto your side on the bed. He just lay there looking at you like your very existence is a miracle as he patiently waits for you to come back to him.

"Th-thanks," you say. You both laugh at your stupidity. "That was um, yeah. Uh, did you—"

He swallows thickly and shakes his head. "But, you know, I'm good if you need to—or, if that was…"

"Nope. Gimme a minute. Or five. I just need to, like…"

"I thought you blacked out," he laughs. "Don't feel obligated, please. That might be the sexiest thing I've ever witnessed."

"Just hang on a second," you reply, trying to catch your breath. "C'mere," you say, waving him closer.

He sidles up beside you on the bed, his hair looking wind-swept (or, sex-swept) behind him on the pillow. He's smiling with those gorgeous dimples as you take his face in your hands, kissing him sweetly with a satisfied hum. "I'm glad we did this," he says quietly, remarkably honest about his feelings for a change. You're not used to this kind of response from your lovers. You're used to regrets and quick exchanges of phone numbers with half-hearted promises to call next time you're in town. You never do.

"…glad we're _doing_ this. Present tense. I'm not done yet," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow as you trail the fingers of your other hand lazily across his chest. "I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't repay you for that earth-shattering orgasm."

"…in _what_ duties, exactly?" You pause for a long moment, trying to come up with a witty response. "I think you just wanted to say the word 'remiss.'"

"I don't have much in this cruel world, Sam. Let me have my words." The two of you laugh openly, and you kiss him again, this time with more promise. Your hair falls over his face, tickling him as he scrunches up his nose. His big hand weaves into your hair to hold it out of your face as you pull back just the slightest bit, sharing a long gaze.

"You're gorgeous, you know that?"

"Alright, Adonis. Enough flattery," you jest, patting his chest.

"I'm serious though."

"Okay," you say with a grimace.

"You don't believe me," he frowns, taken aback.

"Mom always taught me to never refuse a compliment. She said that's what girls who _want_ compliments do."

"I'll make you see it, if you let me."

You sigh long and hard, thinking about the promise that he just made. _He just said in simple terms that this isn't over once the high wears off. I really hope that's true._

"Okay," you say, breaking the tension. "You should get back to fucking me."

He looks taken off guard. "Uh, okay. Sure. Any preferences?"

"I want you behind me, fucking me hard enough to push me up the mattress." You trail kisses up his neck and behind his ear. "I want to ruin a motel pillow with my drool."

"That's kind of gross, but really fucking hot. Also, I don't know if that's very sanitary."

"Fuck me, Sam."

He flips you over like you weigh as much as a medium-sized dog. "Head down, ass up," he says, with a light tap on your ass cheek.

You follow his orders to the letter, then over your shoulder, you ask, "Hey, Sam?"

The dominances flickers off of his face for a moment. "Yeah?"

"I like it when you bite me and pull my hair, _hard_."

"Fuck," he says, steeling himself as he notches at your entrance. "Me too, sweetheart." Then, he sinks into you once more.

This time, it's hard and fast. You can hear Sam inhaling through gritted teeth behind you. _His face must be frozen in that sexy snarl that he does when he gets riled up. It's a damn shame that I can't see that for myself._

You resign to fisting your hands in the sheets, biting your lip to stay silent.

"Let me hear you, baby," he grunts, his hips picking up speed.

"Nnnnnngh. Fuck Sam, oh _god_ —"

He pulls your hair into a ponytail then wraps it around his fist, pulling your back up against his chest as he fucks into you from below. "Like that? Huh?"

You whine at the painful/pleasurable tingling in your scalp, then dig your nails into Sam's bare thigh – it's the closest piece of flesh that you can grab onto. The new angle hits right against your sweet spot, and you start to whimper louder and louder.

" _Christ_ , Sam – right there. R-right _there_. So close—"

"Fuck, me too, sweetheart. You feel so good, all tight around me…"

He drags his open mouth across your back, over to your shoulder. You know what he's going to do.

And he doesn't disappoint.

As soon as he feels your insides begin to quiver, he sinks his teeth into the back of your shoulder – hard enough to bruise, but not to break the skin. Just how you like it.

"Yes – _fuck_ , Sam. God, _mmm_ … Sam!"

He hums and grunts loudly against your skin as he finally lets himself go, the feeling of him spurting inside you dragging out your own orgasm almost to the point of overstimulation.

As soon as he's finished convulsing behind you – no doubt in a sexy way, somehow – he collapses to the bed, you following suit shortly thereafter.

Neither of you have it in you to move for several minutes. You're the first to get up, excusing yourself to the bathroom to clean yourself up. You bring a warm washcloth out with you, but Sam is still a panting heap where you left him.

You drop the washcloth onto the nightstand with a wet _slap,_ then curl up beside Sam on the bed. He wraps an arm around you, his fingers drawing lazy oblong circles on the skin of your shoulder. It takes you a minute to realize that he's lingering over his own bite mark.

"Was that okay?" he asks sheepishly.

"More than okay, Sam. All of it. You don't even have to ask." He hums in response, and the two of you stare up at the ceiling for a few moments in a comfortable silence.

"I know I said it already, but it bears repeating – I'm glad we did this."

"Me too. Who knew all it would take to loosen you up would be a bit of recreational drug use?"

"Dean, probably."

* * *

 _~ Le Fin ~_

* * *

 **A/N:** As per usual, all mistakes are my own. Also, I'm not actually a stoner. Feedback gives me life.


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